Every couple of weeks, I hope to post a Back To School blog for US, THE PARENTS.
* One week, I will introduce you to amazing, relaxing products with a special interview by the products creator.
* Another week I will give you tops and quotes from parents who got off of drugs for their kids, and stay off of drugs for their kids.
* Tips on dealing with Children’s Services.
* Pets and kids.
* Making sure your kids actually do their homework
* Kids and bullies
* Anything readers suggest.
Send suggestions to: lalitadevibastet@yahoo.com

This has been a 90% Free Write site. Typos abound, and I never expected people to actually read it! So I’ve begun a new, hopefully more prefessional site: A Little Bit of Something. It will start off with a lot from this site, but hopefully with fewer typos and better content.

I’m not giving up on this site!

Honestly, my right arm isn’t working. As a right, this has been a problem. And it’s much easier to edit than type a new post.

I’ll be getting a needle in my neck in a couple of weeks, so hopefully that will help. Until then, check my Instagram (killerkat327) or Twitter (@dkstevens327).

Ok. I freely admit that I have avoided the various David Bowie tributes like the plague. How can they pay tribute to a man who, in my mind, is still alive? It’s offensive! Not to mention too soon…

Then we have the Trump inauguration. Which means his run for POTUS wasn’t some huge, unfunny joke.

Trump in a bathrobe. Eeewwww.

And then my Nikita dies. The kitten that I got to keep me company when a cruel judge gave my son’s abusive dad 2 weeks in July and 2 weeks in August — which was used the first year to “fatten” our son up and which his dad gave up — last minute — the 2nd year. Either way, that first year, as I cried myself to sleep, worrying about the various abuses my son’s dad and girlfriend at the time were doing, it was my autumn colored Nikita (the Russian female version of Nicholas, my son’s name), who dried my tears on her fur and lulled me to sleep with her purring. She slept on my chest until she got too big and then slept by my side. She was always there for me. The night I realized that she wouldn’t make it, we sat in the dark as I scritched her favorite spots and she purred. Just before 3 a.m., she put her hands /front paws on my leg, took three deep breaths, and she was gone.

Nikita didn’t like posing for pictures.

Ema was there, too, my tuxedo girl, 2 years older but dying of thyroid cancer 16 days after Nikita. The tumor was in her throat and, even if I’d had the money, nobody would operate. Like Nikita, she wasn’t in pain — until the last few hours. Having worked in a cat clinic, I know how to euthanize a cat, and due to my health problems, I had the ingredients legally. I went to the pharmacy downstairs to get what looked like a mini-turkey baster, albeit a bit big for a cat, and returned to find Ema dead.

Ema / Emanon (“No Name” backwards as I wasn’t ready for a new cat.)

And that’s how I spent my first 2 months of the year: inauguration; crying and carrying my dead cats down the hallway to the trash compactor because I had nowhere to bury them. Fortunately, my son always considered Nikita my cat, but we were given Ema by my son’s dad when we first moved in and my son was 18 months old. I’d said, after Fluffy, my 22.5 year old cat dying the previous year, that I wasn’t ready. But does Bad Dad listen? (Only to the committee’s in his head. A story I’m working on.)

It’s not gotten any easier to write / type fast on a phone. And I’m trying to get out my autobiography: the drugs, being a Professional Dominatrix, the years I spent trying to get my dad to love me at the expense of my happiness. Which is more interesting? What will people relate to more?

Fun story: last December, our therapist went on permanent maternity leave and suddenly the replacement therapist couldn’t fit us in her schedule. So why did New Therapist say that she could see us? I was going Thursday morning and my son Friday after school. First new therapist switched my son to Wednesday, his only early day off but with getting up at 6am, school, therapy, getting home at 7pm, homework just didn’t fit — which I’d said would happen. My Thursday mornings became Monday mornings, but Monday is just a bad day because I know that my weekends with my son are limited and a strong depression hits me Monday. Was that the last weekend before my son decides I’m not cool, or that his friends are cooler?

So we stopped going. (Update: I’ve since called the place we went. We both need therapy. No call back. I’ll try again today, Thursday, since I first called Monday.)

I’ve been reading books about drugs (“Fall to Pieces”, by Mary Forsberg Weiland; “Not Dead & Not for Sale”, by Scott Weiland) and thinking about the time that I was using and… I know that I would never use while my son is living at home; honestly, I probably never will have my goddess heroin in me again — but if I had to state that, it would be harder to shut that voice off. That addict, “Once is ok” voice. So I tell myself that I’ll be able to in a decade, in 8 years… But with the stuff out there nowadays, I’m way too scared. Cutting heroin with fentanyl and carfentanyl — which is used to put down elephants for surgery! No, thanks. I think watching my son as an adult, writing, and having a clouder of cats sounds better.

Off Topic Story:

Back when I was using in college (I’m a “functional addict”: I can support my habit legally, work, go to school with a B+ / 3.3 average, A in my major, Political Science.), I was going down an escalator when I saw a payphone. It was nearing my 27 March birthday, and I was afraid I was becoming an addict. I called an ex who had moved to L.A. and she said I could spend the first week of Spring Break there. (Not sure if I told her why.) A few days before, Scott Weiland went on Howard Stern. I’d seen the drug scene change and figured Scott wouldn’t have the same dealer. I had connections and planned to bring him some heroin and a bit of coke. But then he said that he was “clean”. Well, I’m not going to tempt him so I never went. That day, he was arrested for trying to buy drugs. Dumbass! My birthday happened. I went to a Rancid show the next night with my fake friend, who had once been a real friend, and the cold cheese on warm bread sandwich just kept coming up. (Ironically during, “Dope Sick Girl”.) I’d seen them a bunch of times so I left. I finished my last half bag when I got home and woke Friday 2 March to large snowflakes. I had a flight to L.A.! I brought an apple but was so dope sick the entire six hours. As I got off the plane, my ex lit up, but was pointing to the guy in front of me; I was staring at his awesome ass. He stumbled, turned, banged into me muttering about leaving his hat… Scott Weiland! My ex and I said our Hello’s, she admitted that I was right about needing a car in Los Angeles (she’d never been before moving out there; I wish that I could do that.), and we got on one of those moving walkways. The place was empty except for Scott and some girl who glared at me while Scott looked at me from the walkway opposite ours. I wanted to run over and ask about any connections he might have, before remembering this was a time to detox. And that’s my Scott Weiland story. Exciting, no? (Sarcasm)

who could help me with my tarot deck. I’m not sure why it’s so hard. Maybe because I can’t offer money?

Then there’s the story I thought my ex had completely deleted: I had floor plans; lists of characters including date of birth; date of death (& reason); relationship to other characters; etc. I had an outline, etc. Now I’ve got a few notes, but maybe it’ll be enough to write The Great American Novel my dad always referred to (still trying to please my dad. Pathetic.).

Yesterday, Monday, 27 March, was my birthday. My grandma guilt tripped me so I guilt tripped​ my son into seeing my dad. (Christianity and Catholicism come from Judaism, so we have been using guilt thousands of years before the Catholics.). Unfortunately​, I had a cold and missed the Birthday celebration which went on without me. Odd. How do you celebrate someone’s birthday without them present but still alive? My dad bought my son an expensive video camera and is giving us (another) hand-me-down-I-hope-there’s-no-porn-like-last-time laptop. The laptop is more important than the camera. We NEED a laptop.

Maybe next year I’ll be included in my own birthday celebration.
Blessed Be,

I have been an ovo-lacto (ovo = eggs; lacto = dairy) vegetarian since August 1989. I spent the first half at camp as a vegetarian; came home and ate ribs at Tony Roma’s which, at the time, was on 6th ave between 9th and 10th st, on the 23rd, until they claimed they were “out” of ribs (I had swollen glands from Mono, and knew this would be my last time eating meat, so argued that it was, “All You Can Eat”. They suggested I not become a vegetarian.); and have (knowingly) had meat only one time since then, in the late ’90’s. (I bought a Deluxe frozen pizza. To me, “deluxe” meant mushroons, olives, peppers, etc. To the people making the pizza, it meant including pepperoni and sausage.) Oh, and there was the time my grandparents took me out to dinner for my 16th birthday to an expensive restaurant across from Central Park. I told them that I was a vegetarian; the waitress checked (or said she did) with the chef and promised the appetizer — something with orzo, a cross between rice and pasta — was vegetarian. One bite and I ran to the bathroom saying, “Beef stock” before throwing up repeatedly. When I got back to the table the waitress was, “Oh, gee, the chef said he cooked it with a shank bone but he took it out.” It was the one time that I was glad my grandfather tipped 15% of the main courses only.
I’m not one of those, “I don’t eat meat so therefore you can’t”- types. If you like it, go ahead and put in real sausages. I just can’t eat meat because my love of animals has become a neurotic, “That’s flesh! Oh my G-d, how do people know they’re not eating human flesh? Ugh, flesh…” (I have a thing about. “flesh”.).

But this recipe is really just a quick sandwich. You can use meat sausages, whatever you choose.

These books have Alina Sarkov as the main character in a world that is similar to Russia, but not quite. There are people called, “Grisha”, who have different powers: the Squallers, dressed in blue, who can control the winds; Inferni who can control fire; Heartrenders who can slow and stop your heart; and so on. Alina is an orphan fgom Ravka, which was split in two pieces with The Fold between them. The Fold is a place of pure darkness, but Alina is the first Sun (Light) Summoner in hundreds of years. She goes for training and meets The Darkling who says they were meant to destroy The Fold together. As these are YA (Young Adult) novels, Alina is divided between the boy she grew up with, a tracker named Mal (I feel that I should point out that “mal” means “bad” in most common languages.), or The Darkling.

“The Darkling” by @fictograph on Twitter

After reading The Grisha Trilogy on Scribd, I knew that I had to read The Six of Crows and it’s sequal, Crooked Kingdom. The characters are different, but it takes place after the events of The Grisha Trilogy. While I believe that we should support our fellow writers as much as we can, I am on Disability. My monthly income doesn’t cover rent on a crappy, falling apart, Hellhole, much less transportation (I have go pay for my son on non-school days now), laundry, toilet paper/ paper tosels, electricity (I’d include gas, but cannot affkrd tbe minjmum $20-$30/month), etc. So I found two sites where I could read these books for free:

I was talking to a crush of mine who is into The Walking Dead. My son is scared of zombies (even though, in addition to a Fire Safety Plan we have a Zombie Escape Plan), so I’ve only seen the first couple of seasons. But I’ve read the comic since issue #1. Turns out, I don’t have to wait gor the graphic novel or the Compendium. If you Google, “Walking Dead Comic Free“, you’ll find a site that has them all. Free.I’m now up to #147.

How cool is that?

(and everything I wrote was deleted, so I’ll try to start over a bit…)

Reccommended by Gerard Way, former lead singer of My Chemical Romance, I had to try it. It is an excellent app for beginners, although the down side is that it won’t go onto hour SD card.

October 2016: Three weeks ago, I started Monday off with a yearly checkup at my clinic. Despite my seeing my Primary Care Doctor and my Pain Dr the previous week. The yearly checkup includes meeting with the very nice doctor whom, after 4 years, I cannot understand due to his accent and so I wind up getting stuck with way more needles than anyone else because I smile and nod. The TB (Tuberculosis) test goes in the ring of my SandmanKey To Hell tattoo on my forearm because, four years ago, I squealed, “Don’t stick the needle in the tattoo!” and this has apparently become a runnjng joke between us. Then it’s an EKG test and having blood taken.

Sandman Key To Hell

When I first started there, instead of the required monthly meetings with one’s counselor, I chose to go weekly when I found out his speciality was PTSD* (read my previous posts like, “This Is What It’s Like” — which still needs a good ending — and you’ll see why I have PTSD. I see a seperate therapist once a week but I needed it at the time as I was new to the whole “being crippled by your son’s dad in front of your son and the court giving the dad more unsupervised visitation despite video of the incident”.) On the way to my then counselor, I would pass the nurse who took my blood and try to joke around with her. I’ve since found ojt it’s not me, it’s her — even the males say she’s a bitch.

So last Monday I sat in the chair and didn’t try to joke or do more than be polite. She stuck in the needle, took a few vials, removed the needle, and handed me a single gauze to cover the vein. Unfortunately, she had hit a really good spot and the blood bubbled up through the gauze, down my arm in three streams, and onto the arm-rest before she could hand me more gauze and alcohol(!!!) pads. “Ohmig-d, I am. So. Sorry.” I said, pressing extra gauze and ripping open alcohol pads with one hand. I was mortified. And a bit woozy.

She grunted. Literally grunted. Wha???

I wiped the blood off the arm-rest, my arm, kept applying pressure, added fresh gauze, one bandaid, two, the blood would not stop flowing. Finally I left the room with three gauze pads and two bandaids, trying to hold my phone, sweatshirt and bag, all while applying pressure and I still had to get on line to get medicated. And the blood had already soaked through, so I was basically trying to keep the gauze and bandaids in place while returning three bottles and drinking my methadone.

BIKE BRUISE:

I decided to head home. Unfortunately, I missed the 4th Avenue bus stop and figured since I needed a new goodie, I’d get off at 5th Avenue to go to DII (D2, which used to be, “Dee & Dee”). As I walked up the wheelchair ramp, holding onto the railing with my right hand, I suddenly felt like I hadbeen stabbed in the upper right thigh.

The culpret? A bicycle chained to the bars with the handlebar sticking out so that, 3 weeks later, I can still see the outline in the bruise on my upper thigh.

Two weeks ago, at the beginning of November 2016 (it’s taken me time to write this as well as get the previous dates of your harassment correct), you physically blocked me from entering the building my son and I live in to make one of your crazy claims: when we take a shower, you claim it drips down into your bathroom. Did you tell the Super? No. Did you tell the Landlord? No.You waited until you caught me and my son coming home from my son’s Dr to harass us — AGAIN.

This is not the first time that you have harassed my son and me — banging on my door, trying to stop me from entering the building or the elevator — and, as I did not wish to physically touch you, I had to work my way around you. This, despite my being physically crippled, which you are aware of. I said my usual, “Call the landlord”, although I’m guessing they no longer listen to your insanity, as well as asking if you wished for my son (who was with me at the time) and me to, “stop taking showers”.

Since we moved into this Hellhole (song by Spinal Tap) in June 2006, the walls and floor of my bathroom have been knocked out, leaving large, unsafe holes for months at a time, at least three (3) times due to your paranoia and insanity.

1.)LESS THAN 24 HOURS AFTER WE MOVED IN YOU BROKE THE LAW BY ENTERING MY APARTMENT WITHOUT PERMISSION: My son, aged 1.5yrs at the time, and I saw the apartment above you for the first time on Monday or Tuesday 29/30 May 2006. We filled out the papers and signed the lease at the end of that week, and I picked up tbe keys Monday 5 June 2006. We were to move in that Wednesday and were looking forward to having a bathtub as my son was too big to be washed in the sink and the shelter we were in only had a stand-up shower stall. Due to a SNAFU, we were moved from tbe shelter to the apartment around noon Tuesday 6 June. We immediately went out to purchase a queen sized mattress to sleep on that night and, after a late afternoon delivery, bought sheets at the Atlantic Mall and had dinner at the pizza place on West 7th and Kings Highway. We picked up some essential food and liquids to get us through the night at the bodega across the street and came home between 7 or 8pm. My son was in diapers so the only water usage was when I brushed my teeth (I don’t leave the water running), and washing my hands after I peed, although I didn’t flush as my son was asleep. The next morning, just after 7am, my son and I were awoken to a banging on the door.

“Super!” yelled the Super. We jumped up and ran to open the door to find not only the Super, but you with your huge Russian-English Dictionary. I stepped aside so the Super could come in, and you pushed your way in even though I didn’t know who you were and didn’t invite you in. (Going uninvited into someone’s apartment is illegal in this country.)

“There is leak from this apartment from past two weeks,” the Super said. I reminded him that I had seen the apartment for the first time the week before and had only had the keys since Monday. You tried explaining the water was causing damage and, not realizing what a horrible person you were, I helped you piece together that your kitchen cabinets were coming loose. I would learn to regret that help, not just because you never thanked me in English or Russian, but because the Super proceeded to knock most of the bathroom wall* out on the right side of the toilet, as well as some of the floor, before realizing the leak was from the kitchen and he went in there to knock out some more walls. You gave yourself a tour of the bathroom while my son burrowed in my arms. Finally you and tbe Super left, telling me that the holes would be fixed “soon”.

For the next three months I had to pee and poop sideways on my toilet with my feet in the tub (facing the normal way meant my feet would hang in the floor hole). I had to keep my son out of the tub as I had no room to kneel beside it, and I had to keep him out when I went to the bathroom. Showers were quickly done when he was asleep. And he got washed in the too-small sink.

2.) The wall in my bathroom was knocked in (or out) due to a potential fire from your place. I never complained to you. You never apologized or came to see if we were ok.

3.) Not sure if this happened before or after the fire, but, again, I was the subject of you and the Super shoving into my apartment. And a large hole that had garbage bags over it held by duct tape for months. No thank you, sorry or ANYTHING polite ftom you.

My son used to have nightmares of “La Bruja Russe”, which is technically “Red Old Lady / Witch”… My son had heard me praying*** for help from the red-headed bitch downstairs and that’s what he heard. You and your tacky red hair taunted his dreams and mine. Even before you saw us, your face was turned to a nasty look. And then you would see us, usually in the lobby, and you would light up and srart some tirade against us.**

4.) And so it begins again. Sorry, but no leaks here. I refuse go let anyone in to check your made up stories anymore. “Move kn. G ed t a lufe.” = “Move on. Get a life.” I’ve never had so many problems typing a post.

* Let me briefly describe the bathroom. It is very narrow. It is just under six feet across. Standing in the doorway, the sink is on your left, next to the bathtub going the long way. On your right is a towel rack and two steps bring you to the toilet. There is a window behind the toilet but people on the street can watch you pull down your pants to sit on the toilet. (Thank you to a sralker who let me know.)

** I’ve had typos in my Free Write blogs. But never this bad. I’ve corrected almost every word in this blog.

*** My biological mom is, minimum, 3rd generation New Orleans. (We’re Choctaw on her dad’s side so much more than 3rd generation). Normally I stay away from Dark Magick, but mess with my kid and I’ll take what comes back three times.

Zymere Perkins, age 6, is the latest victim of New York City’s Administration for Children’s Services (ACS). The mother, 26 year old Geraldine Perkins had 5 (five) founded cases against her. When neighbors of this Harlem child tried to report the abuse done to Zymere by his mother and her boyfriend Rysheim Smith, 42, they were ignored. In April of this year (2016), a school social worker called ACS and Nitza Sutton was assigned the case. As Sutton was up for a promotion, she had to close out her cases. Despite the overwhelming evidence that Zymere was being physically abused, and the previous founded cases (meaning there was evidence of abuse found; a first time offender can get a warning but after that there are mandated parenting classes, anger management, and removal of the child. This is usually done with the first or second “founded” case. I have no idea how Ms. Perkins made it to five founded cases and still had custody of Zymere. I was unable to find any reason for this red flag oversight and as I am not a relative, was told that I could not get information over the phone.) against the mother, the case was closed. And Zymere was beaten to death with a broomstick handle.

Nitza Sutton, Zymere’s ACS / Children’s Services worker, closed his case early due to overwhelming evidence of serious physical abuse. Why? Because she had a chance at a promotion but had to finish up or close out all of her cases first. Now, I can understand wanting a promotion. As someone who had to go through eleven cases against my son’s dad (none of which were called in by me; only the first 3 workers spoke to my son’s dad and only the 1st saw him where he lived, but even though the cases weren’t against me, we — my son and I — had to deal with home visits, school visits, meetings at the ACS offices, etc, for 6-8 weeks each time), I know there are many cases which the worker doesn’t even look at the abusive parent unless the child is living with that parent. But Zymere was living with his abusive mother and her abusive boyfriend. He was six and had nowhere to go, nobody who could help him — except Nitza Sutton, his ACS worker. But she had that promotion dangling in front of her, so what’s one more abused kid? Giving her the benefit of the doubt, which is more than she deserves, Ms. Sutton probably figured there would be another call from the school or a neighbor to open another ACS case and it would be another worker’s problem. Why should she care about a bright eyed little boy when she had a promotion coming her way?